Rising Up
by elizaye
Summary: What did John Winchester experience in hell? What did it take for him to climb out of the pit? "He glanced up at the slit that led out of this hellhole and willed it to stay open long enough. This could be his only chance." Rated M for violence. ONESHOT


**Author's Note:** So I never thought that I'd be able to write a story based on _Supernatural_. I love the show, but I felt like there was nothing I could add because I was typically content with what the show had going. But I got a suggestion from a reader, and I decided to try my hand at it anyway. By the way, if you have a question about time, I'm going to discuss that a bit in my author's note at the end of the story. So please save any complaints until you've at least read that tidbit.

This is a story that gives us a glimpse of John Winchester's experience in Hell and the events (for him) leading up to his appearance in "All Hell Breaks Loose (Part 2)", the Season 2 finale.

And Elm Treigh, thanks again for the suggestion! I hope that this story lives up to your expectations. (:

**Disclaimer:** I own neither the characters nor the universe of _Supernatural_.

**Rising Up**

There was blood everywhere.

_Everywhere_.

He cried out in pain as the meat cleaver ripped through his flesh, severing his arm.

Well, that was quick. His tormentor certainly could have taken his time drawing out the pain by working slowly on that arm… so maybe he was in a hurry.

It wasn't as though the pace made any sort of difference. Each day was as unbearably long as the last.

The blade sliced into him again, this time carving a deep rut into his chest.

John Winchester hung suspended in midair, surrounded on all sides by carnage. People were being ripped to shreds and then miraculously—and _very_ unfortunately—made whole again.

He saw the people who were suffering as he was, and he began to wonder _why_. _Why_ was he thrown down into this pit when he had saved so many lives, when he had done so much _good?_

But he knew why he was here, and that was the reason why he wouldn't give up. It was the reason that kept him from succumbing to the temptation that constantly lurked at the back of his mind. He had come down here a righteous man, and he would stay that way.

He soon lost the capability for rational thought, completely immersed in agony as the remnants of his body were torn apart and cast aside carelessly.

But in the next moment, he was once again complete.

Damn.

His tormentor lifted the weapon again.

And then the demon disappeared, and it was silent.

He had made it through another day.

"Hello, John."

No, not him again.

"How was your day, John?"

"Great," said John wryly, opening his eyes.

Sure enough, there was Alastair, smiling wickedly as usual.

"Would you like to hear how your boys are doing?"

"No, I really wouldn't," said John.

But he did want to hear about them. Hearing of his sons gave him the strength to go on. But letting Alastair in on that secret would only give him even more leverage. And that was something John would never allow. He'd already made it almost eighty years. How long much longer could forever be?

"Sam died, you know."

John's immediate reaction was: _he what?_ But he suppressed his query and merely looked at the demon blandly. If all of these decades had been good for nothing else, at least he'd gotten immeasurable patience and an indecipherable poker face.

"Well, wouldn't you like to know what happened to him?" Alastair asked, waving his knife around casually.

John's eyes couldn't help but follow the blade through the air, as though frightened that it would come slashing in his direction. But it was already the end of a day—Alastair wouldn't hurt him at this point.

"Do tell, then. I'm sure whatever I say won't make a damn difference."

"Your friend Azazel was actually rather disappointed, I'll have you know. We were rooting for your Sammy, the whole time."

John didn't respond. This could very well be a trick. He'd broken down fifty-six years ago, when they'd told him that Dean had died. That Dean had been gunned down, and John's sacrifice had been for naught. He'd almost given in that day. He'd let himself show weakness, let tears stream down his face.

Never again.

When he'd rediscovered his strength and saved himself from giving in to Alastair, he had been punished mercilessly. The torturing had gotten more creative, more painful. The duration of each session had grown so that he didn't regenerate as many times in one day.

But a few decades later, they seemed to have lost some interest in him. Maybe they were trying to lull him into a false sense of security before dropping this bomb on him.

Was Sammy really dead?

"You know, Johnny, I'm surprised and rather disappointed—or should I say concerned—with your lack of emotional response. Your son died."

Silence.

"Well, I suppose enough time here could do that to anyone. But do you know what's even better?"

Again, John declined to respond.

"Guess who's coming to join us here, in this nice and warm arena?"

Oh, no. John had an idea of what could have happened—if this were the truth.

"Like father, like son," Alastair said in a singsong tone.

If John could have moved, he would have slugged the demon. But seeing as he was strung up on a web on meat hooks, there wasn't much he could do.

"What did Dean do?" John asked.

"Ah, but you already know the answer. Why are you asking little old me?"

It couldn't be. Dean couldn't have made a deal. No…

Alastair smirked. "Ah yes, you Winchesters are all just _clamoring_ to die for each other. To damn yourselves to Hell so that your kin can live an extra year or two before being gunned down—or shanked by a knife. But look on the bright side here, old Johnny. At least you will soon be reunited with your son."

"No," John said.

Alastair raised his eyebrows. "No?" he repeated softly. "Well, what do you think you're going to do about it?"

John knew there was nothing to be done. He had nothing left to offer any demon—he was already in Hell himself. What could he possibly do to reverse a crossroads deal when he was hanging here?

"If I give in… will you let Dean go?" he asked.

"Ah, ever the altruistic father. That's an interesting proposition, John. I'm tempted," said Alastair, touching his chin thoughtfully. "But seeing as I am not a crossroads demon, deals can't really hold my interest. And besides, why give up something as precious as a human soul for the relatively insignificant pleasure I would get from watching a self-righteous little man, like you, torturing souls in Hell?"

John closed his eyes. He had had enough. "Just make the offer."

"My, oh my, you're very impatient today, Johnny."

John resolved not to speak again for the duration of the conversation. Alastair would lose interest eventually and leave him be—this he knew from experience.

"Ah, I see. That's all I'll be getting from you for today. Well, I don't suppose you'd consent to getting off these hooks and doing a little ripping yourself, would you?"

"No."

"All right, then!" said Alastair, sounding far too happy for John's comfort. "I'll see you tomorrow morning, bright and early."

The demon disappeared, and everything blacked out.

John sighed. As much as he wanted to be furious with Dean, he knew that he'd done the same thing himself when confronted by Dean's critical state so long ago.

He wondered how much time had passed on the surface—it definitely couldn't have been eighty years if the boys were still getting shot at. He had always suspected that time in Hell would run differently from time on top, but now he wished he had a way of knowing how long the boys had been out there on their own.

And he worried about Sammy's fate. If Sammy had been killed, then he most likely hadn't become a monster, as a result of what Azazel did to him. But Dean…

He supposed that he had always stressed that Dean had to take care of Sammy—he never allowed for compromise in that respect. Sammy was always top priority for Dean.

But that didn't mean Dean was supposed to _sell his soul!_ Didn't he know better?

He sighed again and reminded himself that he'd done the same thing for Dean. He only hoped that Dean wouldn't be thrown down here too soon, that he'd gotten the standard ten-year deal. In that amount of time, maybe he would be able to find a loophole. Dean could contact John's friends. At least Bobby would help them—of that John was sure.

As his thoughts quieted down, John became aware of the ticking again. The ticking that never ceased, that needled every single inhabitant of Hell, reminding the souls of how long they had been down there, and how much longer they needed to endure.

Eternity. The word didn't carry as much weight on Earth as it did in Hell. Eternity on Earth didn't sound so dreadful. In Hell… well, there was a reason why it was called Hell.

Even without the torture, the ticking alone was enough to drive a man insane.

He wished for a way to close his ears to the sound. If he had a gun, and if there were a visible clock, he would have found a way to shoot it.

But he had no gun.

And there was no clock in sight.

He hoped the boys had taken care of the Colt, that they hadn't lost it. And he hoped that they hadn't gone _looking_ for Azazel. But in all likelihood, with the desire for revenge that Sammy always carried around, and the over-protectiveness Dean harbored for his little brother, they were going after the yellow-eyed demon even now.

He was sure that Dean would try to talk Sam out of it, that he would make an effort to steer Sam away from Azazel. But Sam had definitely inherited John's stubbornness, and no amount of convincing would do any good.

If Alastair hadn't been lying and Dean had really traded his soul for Sam's resurrection, then maybe… maybe they would stop looking for the demon.

Then again, John doubted Azazel would just let them go. Maybe it _was_ better that they were fighting him. At least they would be prepared if he ever did strike.

But there was nothing to be done about it now. He looked around, and all he could see was darkness, stretching out in all directions.

Stuck in this dark abyss, John was useless to his boys. They really were on their own.

And he hated it.

* * *

He was being lashed.

Today a cat of nine tails clawed at his chest, his arms, his back. He'd managed to keep silent for a good half hour before finally crying out in pain.

In the first few years, it had taken them less and less time to make him scream. But he'd grown stronger, learned how to resist them. He'd started by holding off for one minute. Just one. Then one minute slowly turned to two. And then two minutes became three, and his tolerance continued to grow.

Now he was capable of staying silent for just over half an hour of excruciating pain, and it infuriated the souls who came to torture him. But their rage only fueled his resolve, and he'd grown even stronger.

As he roared in pain, today's torturer began to laugh triumphantly, and he recognized her voice.

"Meg," he growled.

"Oh, ho, ho! You recognize me," she said gleefully as she reached out for his arm.

She pulled a few chains out of the way and broke his wrist with a loud crunch.

"Your boys sent me down here, and _boy_, has it been awful. _No one_ was happy to see me."

Here she paused, then lifted her hand and held out her palm, facing him. She twisted it, and intense pain erupted in his chest. He gritted his teeth and tried to hold back the cry of pain—it came out as a snarl instead.

"Well, at least the boss made it out alive. And it's all thanks to _you_, John."

He glared at her but made no response.

"Yes, you. You saved him, simply be being… well, _you_. And your dear Sammy just couldn't _bear_ to put a bullet through his beloved _Daddy's_ thick skull."

John decided to keep the conversation going, as it was distracting Meg from her task.

"Where is Azazel now?" he asked her. "What's his next move?"

"Do you really think I'm going to tell you that, John? Oh, you're so cute. Well, I _will_ tell you this: when I get out of here, the first thing I'm going to do is carve a nice, big piece out of each of your darling sons and—"

"No, you won't," John interrupted calmly.

"I beg your pardon?"

"They'll just send you straight back down again."

"Oh, no no no. Not this time, John. They'll have so many demons to chase that by the time they get to me, they'll be dog-tired and utterly defenseless."

While she was speaking, John had managed to inconspicuously pull his right hand off the hook on which it had been impaled. His wrist was killing him, but it was a start. She'd let down her guard when she broke his wrist—without those chains in place, he could technically reach out and grab her.

But even without a broken wrist, what would he be able to do to her in Hell? The rest of him was bloody and mangled, and he couldn't possibly break free of all the rest of these chains and hooks without being tied right back up again by her.

"You think that many demons can climb all the way to the top and slip through the cracks of Hell?"

"Oh, stupid man, do you really think we have such _limited_ plans?"

John only lifted one brow, knowing that the demon would take this as a challenge. If she felt herself challenged, she'd be more likely to reveal important information. John didn't know what he would do with said information if he ever got it, but he'd get it anyway.

It would help him to stay sane.

"We're going to open a doorway from Hell to Earth," she said with a joyful smile.

"Devil's Gate," John breathed.

Hope blossomed in his chest. As much as a Devil's Gate could mean… well, _Hell_ for those on Earth, it meant _escape_ for John. And try as he did, he couldn't deny that that was one of the things he wanted most in the world.

"Ah, so you _have_ heard of a Devil's Gate," Meg said, still smiling.

Then there was a sliver of white light, shining down from above, contrasting the reddish hue that colored the depths of Hell. With the light came a cool breeze, something that didn't belong in this infernal furnace.

"It's happening," said Meg, a look of awe crossing her face.

The others around them had stopped their screaming, faces turning upward.

"It's happening!" she howled.

She started to float upward, but he reached his right hand out and snatched her arm, holding her in place. She continued to pull upward, and John felt his body being ripped by the hooks in his legs, torso, and shoulders.

"What the _hell_ are you trying to do?" Meg demanded of him, trying to pry his fingers off of her.

"Your knife," he said. "Give me your knife."

Meg wrapped her free hand around John's wrist and squeezed tight. Still he held on, not allowing her to break free from his grasp.

"Give me your knife, and I'll release you," he said firmly.

With a sigh of disgust and a yearning look at the sliver so far away, Meg produced the blade that she used for carving souls and thrust it into John's still-bound left hand.

"_There_. Now release me."

John reluctantly let go of her arm, knowing that he wouldn't be able to do anything to her with the knife without letting her go first.

As soon as she was free, Meg morphed into a cloud of smoke and soared upward. And as though that was the signal, the rest of the demons present also began transforming into smoke, leaving their victims behind.

No… all of these demons couldn't get out of Hell!

But John knew it was beyond his power to stop them. He just knew that _he_ wanted to get out of here before the damned Gate was shut.

He reached over with his right hand and removed the chains that bound his left hand. Pain lanced through him—now all of his weight was being supported by the hooks in his legs, shoulders, and chest.

Deep breaths. Focus. He had to focus.

Pushing the pain aside, John looked at the small platform on which Meg had been standing. The edge was only about two feet away from him. It'd be easy to step on if he weren't so tied up.

He glanced back up at the slit that led out of this hellhole and willed it to stay open long enough for him to get there. This could very well be his only chance.

Spurred on by the renewed hope of being able to get out, John assessed the situation. He had to get himself out of these hooks.

He looked at the hooks in his legs. One kept him from being pulled too far upward—it speared through his foot just below his left ankle, hooking onto his calcaneus. There was no way for him to reach that one without bending over. The other two went through his thighs, holding him up.

There were two hooks just beneath his ribs, each a hair's breadth from piercing a lung. Another one pierced his left shoulder, and a final hook went around his collarbone. A number of thick chains were coiled around his torso and legs.

Only one hook was in his right leg, and although there was a chain around that ankle, it seemed to have enough give so that he'd be able to reach the platform. If he could free that leg, then he could step onto the platform and use it to support some of his weight.

Yes, that would be doable.

He tossed the knife at the platform with just enough force to get it to stick in the wood—he'd probably need it later.

Then, bracing himself, he gripped the hook in his right leg tightly, aware that removing this hook would leave most of the weight on his body to be held up by the few remaining hooks. After a final moment of hesitation, John pressed down on the hook with all his strength, lifting his right leg as much as he could. The hook slipped out of his leg with a sickening squelch, and he winced as the other devices that held him up dug in a little deeper.

With great effort, he swung himself forward and placed his right foot firmly on the platform. But he was held back by the two hooks in his ribs—once he got those two out of the way, he would be able to swing forward enough to put most of his weight on his right foot.

He exhaled deeply and flexed the fingers on his right hand—his wrist had begun to swell, and he was losing feeling in his fingers. Had a broken bone hit a nerve? This could be very bad… he'd have to work faster.

He managed to extract the left hook from his ribcage, but as he pulled down on the right hook, his hand trembled, and the hook punctured his lung. John shuddered, clenched his teeth, and rapidly tugged it out the rest of the way. He cried out as his shoulder and collarbone took the majority of his weight.

More demons were flying past him toward the exit, and when he looked up, he was distracted by the sight: they seemed to be stopped from flying out by some invisible barrier that knocked them back down again. Some were scaling the walls instead—he noted that these demons were able to slip out as black smoke when they reached the top.

John winced as he realized that that would be the way that he'd have to get out of there.

How could he do it with a broken wrist, a hole in his lung, and—from the looks of the hook just to the right of his face—a potentially missing clavicle?

Still, he couldn't give up. No matter what, he would never give up.

He swung forward and put his full weight on his right foot, feeling relief wash over him as the points at his collarbone, shoulder, and left thigh finally felt some reprieve from the pain. His left foot, however, was a bit strained because he had to pull it slightly upward in order to maintain balance on the platform.

Four more hooks to go.

The shoulder hook was easy enough to pull out, but the one that looped around his collarbone didn't seem like it would be very likely to move anytime in the near future. Thankfully, it was in his right collarbone, and he would be able to use his healthy left arm to try to force it out.

He tried rotating the device forward, to see if he could pull it out that way. But it stopped turning before the tooth of the hook had retreated into his flesh, and no amount of struggling with it could make it budge another inch.

So either he had to cut a piece out of his clavicle, or he had to do away with it entirely.

John swallowed hard and looked down at the knife on the ground. Best to get this over with as quickly as possible. But he realized belatedly that the knife was on the ground, and there would be no way for him to get to it without reaching down. And reaching down would be impossible as long as the hook in his collarbone remained there.

He was stuck in a loop.

He looked around himself and finally became aware of all the other souls screaming around him, trying to free themselves. No one had succeeded.

No. He wouldn't give up just because no one else seemed capable of making it through this.

Summoning strength that he hardly even knew he still possessed, John grabbed onto the chain that was attached to the problematic hook and twisted it around his hand a few times. He just had to do this quick, and without empathy… for himself.

Like pulling off a bandage, right?

He exhaled deeply and gave a hard pull. Blinding agony blossomed from the base of his neck to his shoulder. His breathing became shallower, and he wondered if the punctured lung might have something to do with it.

Or maybe all the pain was finally getting to him. He was beginning to see black spots.

He gave another mighty tug, and the pain multiplied.

"I can't do it," he muttered to himself in a hoarse voice.

He reminded himself that he couldn't give up. He didn't want to be down here for another eighty years, and then another eighty after that. He reminded himself of just how long eternity would be. This relatively small amount of pain would _have_ to be endured if he was going to escape.

He looked up at the exit once again, trying to gather his strength.

Several fierce tugs later, John's collarbone snapped, and the hook ran right through his flesh. Hissing and growling with pain, John started to collapse. But he'd forgotten about the hook in his left thigh, and when he fell, pain lanced through his entire left leg.

Cursing at his own stupidity—but knowing that he couldn't have done any better as he was almost delirious with pain and oxygen deprivation—John straightened, continuing to balance on his right leg. He reached down and removed the hook from his left thigh with great care, making sure to fall forward so that he'd land on the platform.

Removing the final hook was very simple, and finally he lay on the dark wood, free of all restraints. He rolled onto his back and looked up at the gathering cloud of dark smoke. They were crawling up the walls.

How long had the window been open? He couldn't have been at this for more than half an hour. How long would it take for him to scale walls that were so vast?

And how would he get to them in the first place?

And then the most practical question yet became apparent. How could he accomplish _anything_ in this state? He could hardly breathe properly, as he was sure that one of his lungs was filling up with blood—as this thought crossed his mind, he felt the need to cough, and coughed up a mouthful of blood.

His right arm was hanging limply at his side. It'd probably be right near useless to him, and he would need both arms to climb that wall.

He let out a furious shout.

He had _not_ freed himself from all of those damned hooks just to end up stuck on that platform for Alastair to find!

John lay there for what felt like forever. But from the incessant ticking, he calculated that it was just over five minutes.

And then he realized what it was that he had to do.

He had to kill himself.

It was the only way. In Hell, "dying" resulted in bodies being put back together again. _Whole_. And that was exactly what he needed.

He picked up the knife and placed the point against his chest, making sure it would pierce straight into his heart to ensure that he would die quickly. He'd learned to tolerate pain, but he still preferred to avoid it as much as possible.

Finally, he drove the blade into himself. There was one blinding moment of absolute agony, and then nothing.

* * *

It was too damn cold. When had it gotten to be so cold?

John opened his eyes, expecting for some reason to see that he was lying in his bedroom and that he'd left a window open. But of course, all he saw was a room full of blood, chains, and tortured souls.

He quickly looked down at his body and flexed his right hand, realizing that he had indeed been brought back in one piece. A quick glance upward told him that the Gate was still open, and that demons were still trying to get out. Apparently the climb was a long one, even if the flight wasn't.

John looked back and forth. He had to figure out how to get to the wall…

He looked at the complicated web of chains and wondered how reliable they all were. But the Gate couldn't possibly be open for long. He'd have to find a way to get to the top before it closed, and if the demons were having that much trouble…

Some clouds of black smoke were still flying by, and John waved his arms frantically.

"Hey! Over here! I got loose!" he shouted, trying to get their attention.

But none of them seemed to care.

He walked to the far edge of the platform and reached out for some chains. He gave them a light tug, and they seemed to hold. He pulled harder, and still they held. But he was still hesitant to put his full weight on them…

Then a cloud of black smoke flew close enough to him so that he could grasp it, and grasp it he did. He'd learned in all his time down here just how to get a hold of a demon and _keep_ that hold—he'd used that trick on Meg before. He supposed that being just a soul really did have its advantages.

Surprisingly, instead of stopping to fight or argue with John, the demon simply continued to fly, carrying John with him. John sincerely hoped that the demon wouldn't suddenly fall. It'd be terrible to fall from a height like this and land in a web as tangled as the one below him.

John kept a tight grip and waited, waited until they seemed near the top, and the other demons were stopping to climb. The one with which he had hitched a ride paid no heed to him as it shoved its way onto the wall and began to climb.

Still hardly able to hang on, John managed to get his hands onto some solid rock. It burned his skin, but he refused to let go. If he fell now, the odds of getting another easy ride like that were close to zero. He had to make it out.

Looking up again, he saw the gaping exit—it looked _huge!_ But the closer he got to it, the more difficult it became to advance.

And it felt _freezing_. What felt like an icy wind blew mercilessly at him and the other demons, and he realized that he felt this way because he'd almost become accustomed to the heat of Hell.

But he made it.

The ticking sound filled his ears for another few seconds, and then it was blissfully gone. He heard the sounds of a storm around him, and for a moment he couldn't see anything. But he could hear someone speaking faintly. And as he stepped farther away from the Gate, he grew more accustomed to the temperature of Earth, the way that the wind blew around him.

The voice grew clear, and when John opened his eyes again, he could see.

"I knew I kept you alive for some reason… until now, anyway," Azazel was saying.

John stepped closer, making sure to stay hidden as long as possible. He saw that Azazel had the Colt in hand and that Dean was on the ground, unable to defend himself. It wouldn't be safe for John to show himself too early—he still had the element of surprise.

The demon continued, "I couldn't have done it without your pathetic, self-loathing, self-destructive desire to sacrifice yourself for your family."

As Azazel pointed the gun down at Dean, John lunged forward and grabbed onto him, pulling him straight out of his vessel. But Azazel was much more difficult to hold onto than any regular demon, and John couldn't restrain him for long. The demon threw him back, and John cursed mentally as he watched the dark smoke reenter Azazel's vessel.

But then he saw that Dean held the Colt. And as Dean pulled the trigger, John finally tasted sweet triumph once again.

His son's aim was true.

With several flashes of light, the yellow-eyed demon, the one who had murdered Mary and ruined _so much_ for John and his boys, was dead.

John got back to his feet and looked down at the dead demon. And then he turned his eyes upward, toward the son who had finally finished what he had been unable to do himself. He took a few steps toward Dean and reached out, placing a hand on his son's shoulder. A small smile stretched his lips, and pride surged in him as his son smiled back.

He looked to his right to get another look at Sammy, and his eyes began to well up. The demon hadn't succeeded in turning Sammy into a monster. After so many years, the chase was finally over. Azazel was _dead_.

But at what price?

As John turned his eyes back to his older son, a tear slipped from his eye. If Dean couldn't break his deal, he would be going to Hell.

But there was no way John could stay for that.

His business here was finished, and there was no more he could do for the boys.

He took a few steps back, away from Dean. And then brightness began to surround him on all sides, slowly erasing the trees, the railroad, the sky, the clouds…

John took one last look at his boys before allowing himself to be drawn into the light.

And at long last, he was at peace.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I promised I would talk about time here, so I'm going to talk about time.

In Season 4, we find out that one month on Earth is about ten years in Hell (because Dean was gone for about four Earth-months, and but he was stuck in Hell for about forty Hell-years). John was gone for the entire duration of Season 2, which I estimated to be about eight months or so, so that means he was in Hell for about eighty years.

And I figured you might have questions about how long John had to get out of Hell. Well, I calculated, and based on the four Earth-months to forty Hell-years conversion, one Earth-minute converts to approximately twenty Hell-hours. So assuming that the Devil's Gate was open for say, five minutes, then John would have had a good 100 hours to get out. That's just the math. In the episode, I don't think it was open for much more than four minutes at the most, so we'll say eighty hours. I think that'd be plenty of time for a tough guy like John to get out.

If you still have questions, let me know.

And please review! I know that there wasn't much dialogue in this, and I wasn't really sure of the characters… this is my first _Supernatural_ fic, so don't be too cruel to me xD

Thanks for reading!


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